


The Beautiful Dream

by charlies_not_here



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Awesome Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Pietro, Hurt Pietro Maximoff, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of whump and angst bc i still love these kids and, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Years Later, am still not over this shit, clint barton/laura barton - Freeform, fuck u marvel, helen cho is badass, post-age of ultron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlies_not_here/pseuds/charlies_not_here
Summary: Dr. Cho manages to save Pietro and Clint takes him under wing with the hopes of giving him an out- but at what cost? And if Wanda finds out about this betrayal . . .?..(Lots of whump and angst bc i still love these kids and, years later, am still not over this shit)





	The Beautiful Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Still not over my baby's death, and I thought Marvel would make up for it, but then they took the rest of my babies. So I decided to throw a double fingered salute at Marvel and write this as therapy for the void that used to be my heart. Enjoy!! :)

 

 

It wasn’t a gut instinct, nor a hero complex that made him stand there and take those bullets - it was the screams. The screams that echoed his own mother’s from years ago- screams of a mother who was about to lose her child.

 

They bounced between his eardrums, his mind having trouble discerning which were real and which were from a family long gone. They both rang clear with grief and anger and _fear._ So he ran. Faster than he ever had before- less than a millisecond fueled by adrenaline and a desperation to prevent history from repeating itself.

 

He let his body be torn apart as he watched the archer’s soot-stained arms tighten around the shaking boy, watched him look up in disbelief and horror, watched a terrible realization flood his features as the world faded out and another scream joined the other two- one of sharp agony- one of passionate heartbreak- one from his sister.

 

***

 

Pietro abruptly woke up to a panic-stricken world. His lungs stuttered and he clawed at his chest, gasping wetly. Blinding lights pierced his skull and he blinked in rapid succession, taking in the blurred figures rushing all around, hands pressing-yanking-prodding, muffled voices surrounding him on all sides:

 

“. . . normal heart rate?”

 

“-ony Stark in here now . . .!”

 

“Testing . . . files?”

 

“Molecular tes . . . we don’t know . . .”

 

“. . . Hydra . . .”

 

  He didn’t understand, and he couldn’t breath and he was in so much _pain_ and he _couldn’t feel his legs_ -

 

“Why is he still conscious?”

 

“We don’t have a strong enough sedative! He keeps burning through it too fast, it’s too dangerous to keep injecting-”

“Apply Cap’s sedative, _now!”_

 

  Someone forced his hands down and placed a heavy oxygen mask over his face just as he felt a sharp sting followed by a rush of cold in his neck. The lights and voices faded and in seconds he was out again.

 

-

 

 The next time he woke was much less dramatic. The lights were dimmed and he lay flat on a hospital bed, covered with a thin sheet and connected to more machines than he could count. The pain he’d felt the first time he’d gained consciousness had eased into a dull thudding under his skin, a muted hell. After several thick minutes he lifted a heavy hand, clumsily pulling the oxygen mask from his face and onto his chest.

 

“That’s not a good idea,” a voice mumbled to his right. Gingerly turning toward the noise he was surprised to see the archer. The man regarded Pietro with bloodshot eyes, lines of exhaustion etching his face.

 

“W'nda . . .?” he scratched out. The name was loaded with a million questions.

“She’s alright. But she’s- she’s not here. I’m Clint.”

 

Pietro couldn’t quite make sense of what the man was saying. If Wanda was alright, why wasn’t she here? Was she mad at him? Was she locked away somewhere? They _had_ done some bad things, after all.

 

“I . . . don’t . . .”

 

“Shh. I’ll explain everything later. Right now you need sleep and another gallon of painkillers. Rest,” Clint said wearily, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Pietro didn’t _want_ to rest. He wanted answers. He wanted his _sister_. But his body seemed to welcome the invitation and shut down before he could ask again.

***

 

Wanda was a ghost.

 

After a draining 24 hours of S.H.I.E.L.D. clean up, psych evals, interrogations, and avoiding political personnel, Tony Stark had finally managed to transport the Avengers back to the compound in relative safety. As soon as they touched down everyone drifted off to collapse in their separate living quarters, exhausted and hungry to boot.

 

All except Wanda.

 

Tony had quietly led Wanda to a spare room, which was three times the size of her old home, and with an awkward squeeze on her shoulder and a pained smile he was gone. She numbly layed down and stared at the ceiling, a hollow pit in her gut that was slowly growing to the size of a chasm.

 

Of all the things that she had imagined could happen after volunteering for Hydra, laying in a soft bed on the Avenger’s Compound a day after her brother- her twin, the last living member of her family- was slaughtered before her, was not one of them. She felt as though every fiber of her being could tear apart at any second- propel her dusted, grieving remains into the darkness of the night sky and be lost forever. It was preferable to this life. This life forced to live without the one person she’d known since the womb. Before she’d known anything else, she’d known Pietro.

 

Knew his heartbeat like she knew her own. It was the same, after all. Although . . .

 

Not now.

 

Now, half her heart was silent. Withered. Black as blood spilt on ash.

 

Distantly she realized the wetness on her cheeks were tears, and despite the bone-deep ache in her body, she heaved herself up and staggered her way to the bathroom wherein she retched until her body physically couldn’t take it anymore. She shakily collapsed into herself, resting a clammy forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, and passed out.

 

-

 

She woke to a hand on her shoulder and a quiet, sort of scratchy voice.  

 

“Wanda? Hey, let’s move you to the bed, yeah?”

 

_Black Widow._

  
Wanda tensed, falling abruptly away from the hand and against the wall, avoiding the concerned gaze of the woman as she tried to tell herself that _she wasn’t the enemy anymore._ Hydra. Hydra is the enemy. Not these people.

 

_They got Pietro killed._

 

“You okay? Wanda, what’s wrong?”

 

“I-um,” Wanda realized why the agent looked so tense when she looked down at her own shaking hands and took in the agitated, dark red energy weaving itself like a thousand snakes around her arms.

It looked like boiling blood.

Taking a deep breath she stuck her hands under her armpits to calm the power sizzling beneath her skin and looked Black Widow in the eyes.

 

“Nothing. How long . . . have I been here?”

 

“It’s eight in the morning. About nine hours since we got here. My name’s Natasha, by the way. Do you mind if we talk in english?”

 

Startled, Wanda realized she had been speaking in Russian, and Natasha was speaking back as if it was her mother language as well.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Natasha waved a dismissive hand, “Don’t apologize. I’m just a little rusty is all.”

 

Wanda suspected this wasn’t the case at all, but she let it slide.

 

The small bout of adrenaline at being woken up had faded and Wanda slouched, exhaustion wracking her body. Natasha sat against the opposite wall and tilted her head, an understanding and sadness in her grey eyes as she regarded the younger woman’s pale face.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Wanda sat in silence, feeling suddenly sick again. Natasha continued:

 

“I’m sorry it had to happen like this. I feel like we fight _so hard_ and then . . . we just- just _lose_ it all again in the end.”

 

Wanda glanced up at the agent, taking in the tired grief that nearly matched her own. It was overwhelming and more than a little depressing.

 A muted spike of guilt weaved its way through her ribs as she remembered what she had done to the woman. . . to the _Avengers_. 

The spike twisted and hardened as she realized that in the end, _she_ was the one to live out her greatest nightmare. 

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Wanda whispered after a few minutes of loaded silence, hands shaking.

 

Natasha slowly stood and offered a hand to help her up, and helped her over to the soft never-touched bed that sat under a massive black and white photo of the New York skyline.

Once she was laying curled on her side under the warmth of a heavy feather comforter her eyes started to clamp shut on their own accord and distantly she heard Natasha place a water bottle on the nightstand and leave the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

 

Wanda was asleep in seconds.


End file.
